the spaces between infinity
by coerulus
Summary: This is all they are—a boy and a girl, painting a watercolor world together. ed ღ winry. [childhood drabble/vignette series]
1. monarchs and muddy knees

When they're six, he follows her into a meadow.

The grass is tall and swishy, soaring above his head, and clusters of flowers dot the serene landscape. He can't remember the context of abandoning his dignity like this—a game of tag, maybe, or some form of avenging his wounded pride. He rushes blindly through the field and towards the dwindling sound of Winry's voice, ignoring the sharp slices of coarse grass on his tender palms. A bird shrieks a reprimand at his brashness as he tears by, heart beating furiously.

"Come _on_ , Ed," she taunts him, running backwards and cupping her small hands over her mouth. The spring breeze catches her hair in its fingers and pulls the blonde strands with it. "You can do better than—"

In slow motion, it seems, the back of her right foot hits a rock suddenly, and Ed knows from the way her center of gravity has shifted that she's going to fall. He briefly entertains the idea that she's flying, and the wind has carried her off to some cloudy domain, but she lands quickly with a hard grunt of pain, and then a gasp. Her hands move to her right hip, cradling something gently.

"Winry! What is it?" he calls out to her, panting slightly and shaking his soft hair out of his eyes. Her legs are tucked to the side underneath a pink corduroy dress-overall combination, and she pays no attention to the smear of grass running across the seams, but instead to the thing she has in her palms.

"Don't yell," she scolds him loudly, big blue eyes berating him as much as her mouth is. She opens her hands, and in the center of a sunflower is a butterfly, a Monarch, by the looks of its speckled orange and black wings. "It's hurt. We have to try and make it better." The tiny creature's wing flutters pathetically, and it droops under its own weight, struggling to stand in the valley Winry's palms form.

Ed shrugs, sitting down on the rock Winry tripped over. "What do you want me to do? Build it a new wing?" Winry scowls, and it genuinely scares him for a moment, a rather impressive feat considering her soft, round cheeks and downy blonde hair.

She brings the butterfly closer to her face, lifting her hand so she's eye level with the insect's delicate wings. "It's too small for automail," Winry says softly. She peers at it from different angles—directly above the butterfly and from the side. Realizing its attempts to fly are futile, it stops trying to flap its wings and allows Winry to gently move the wing with her index finger.

"A splint," she says suddenly. Ed looks at her in bewilderment. "If you do your weird magic science stuff to make me a splint, I can fix it."

"It's called _alchemy_ and _transmutation_ ," Ed grumbles, kneeling next to Winry and tracing a crude circle in the dirt with his finger. He tries not to imagine what Al or Mom would say if they saw the grime thickly caked underneath his nails.

"Whatever," Winry says, "just hurry up!" Ed adds the lines required to his transmutation circle and claps his hands, the circumference lighting up in electrifying blue. When the light clears away, he holds a tiny piece of wood (more like a large splinter) in his hand, and offers it to Winry.

Gently, Winry sets the butterfly down on the rock, where it gives a weak shudder. Ed watches as she yanks a stray thread from her sock and carefully splints the butterfly's wing. Her hands are remarkably steady the entire time, even though fat, cold droplets of rain have started to fall, and the only indication of her concentration is the slight narrowing of her eyes.

"It should hold until I can give it something to eat," Winry says, apparently satisfied with her handiwork. Ed personally thinks it was too much time to spend on just one tiny butterfly, but that's Winry. She gets up slowly from the ground, and winces. "Ow!" Her knee is skinned—badly, too. Fat drops of blood ooze from the long scratches, and one drips down her shin in a long, red line.

Ed sighs. "Stupid."

But he still lets her throw her arm around his shoulders, and together, they hobble home through the mud with a butterfly in their palms.

[fin]

* * *

 **thank you for reading! please leave a review and/or a favorite if you enjoyed** ❤️


	2. canine conundrum

Ed nearly passes out on his first attempt at alchemy.

His transmutation circle is more elliptical than round, he's pretty sure he's missing a line or a dot somewhere, and to make everything worse, a passing bird leaves him a 'gift' in the upper right sector. The result of his feeble alchemy is a rock no bigger than a peach pit, and he flops miserably on his back with the exerted effort.

It makes him feel marginally better that Al isn't doing much better—although his circle is nicer than Ed's, the sheer force of energy leaves the younger Elric's hair standing on end and, Ed suspects, a pair of singed eyebrows as well.

"I didn't think it would be this hard," Al says sadly. He stares dejectedly at the thick tomes filled with alchemical research that form a pile by his leg and sniffles, coming to the terrible realization that the 'equivalent exchange' of practicing alchemy outdoors is aggravated allergies.

"Me neither," Ed says. He's tired and frustrated and honestly could really go for one or two or maybe ten slices of apple pie at the moment. "We're gonna keep trying though, okay?"

"Mmm!" Al agrees. The loud grumbling of his stomach, however, begs to differ. "After lunch?" he amends. Ed nods.

Over two steaming bowls of herbed tomato soup and garlic crackers, Ed chants, "Comprehension, deconstruction, reconstruction", flipping pages and being careful not to drip soup on the illustrations. The silence yielded by his concentration is only broken by Al's occasional slurp and the crunching of crackers. He turns a page. "Alchemy's first law is equivalent exchange. In order to receive, something of equal value must be given." Ed scowls. "So my circle was only worth this measly rock?" he asks, pounding a fist on the table that makes his spoon jump in his soup.

"I'm sure we just need practice," Al says reassuringly.

Ed halts in mid-slurp, a red mustache from the soup running across his upper lip. "Well," he says, pushing his chair back from the table and leaving a half empty bowl of soup at his place, "I guess I should start now." He breaks off into a run towards the field with a stick of chalk clutched in his fist, leaving the door wide open as he jumps the porch steps two at a time.

"Wait!" Al shouts, waving at Ed. "Are you gonna eat that?" When his question goes unanswered, he shrugs and pours the rest of Ed's soup into his own bowl.

{…}

In just a week, Ed's alchemy has improved at least threefold, and he's able to make shapes and mostly discernible animals from his material of choice. He produces a passable imitation of Den, and Al transmutes an anonymous cat.

"They're beautiful," Trisha tells them, genuinely marveling at each of the creations her sons present before her. One of the ears on Al's cat is mangled and the hind legs of Ed's dog are shorter than its front legs, but to her, the details make them all the more precious.

"Why don't you show them to Winry?" she suggests. Al scampers off to the Rockbell residence after receiving a quick kiss to the forehead, but Ed crosses his arms and sulks.

"She wouldn't care," he says, with surprising bitterness for a child his age. "All she likes is her dumb screws and her dumb automail." He digs a tiny trench in the tiny dog's wooden back with his fingernail, nose wrinkled in consternation.

Trisha pulls the boy into a hug, trying her best to conceal the smile sneaking onto her face. "I'm sure she'll like it if you show it to her," she says reassuringly. Ed's lips remain in a firm pout. "And even if she doesn't, I have no doubt my little genius can make something she _will_ like, can't you?"

"Hmph," is all he has to say, chubby hands folded around the wooden dog. He'd catch Winry's attention if he transmuted, like, a leg or maybe an arm. Perhaps he'll transmute a middle finger for her.

"Come on," Trisha coaxes, stroking Ed's long hair. It's difficult enough to reason with little kids, but it's twice as hard to reason with Edward Elric, regardless of how old he is. The boy still wears an obstinate frown on his face, a stark contrast to his round cheeks and eyes. "How do you know if you won't try it?"

"You said that about milk," says Ed. "I _hate_ milk."

"I said that about tomatoes too, and you love those," Trisha counters.

"I don't _love_ Winry," Ed says, making a face. His nose scrunches up in disgust, and he blows a loud and rather rude raspberry in Trisha's general direction. "That's _gross._ "

Trisha sighs. If she didn't already know that her boys were going to grow up to be brilliant alchemists, she thinks they would have made fine lawyers as well—at least, Ed would have. Al is too sweet and soft spoken to get into very many arguments. "Okay," she says, "but I still don't see why you wouldn't want to go. It's such a nice day outside, you kids should go and play. You haven't gone to see her in a while."

The statement is met with defeated silence, and Trisha triumphantly notes the softening of Ed's tiny scowl.

"It would make Winry and me very happy if you went to play with her and your brother," she hints.

Ed gives an angry huff. "Fine!" And with that, he's out the door, hair flying back in the wind as he jogs away to the Rockbell household. He nearly loses his dog twice in the waist high reeds that span the distance between the two houses, but the wide wooden sign denoting the yellow house as the Rockbell automail shop appears just a few minutes later, sparing Ed the potential trouble of looking for his lost dog. The door is slightly ajar upon his arrival, but swings away from him before he even has the chance to knock.

"I was surprised when I didn't see you with Al," Granny comments, holding the door open for a surly and panting Ed. Winry is sitting at the dinner table opposite from Al, admiring his craftsmanship over a plate of chocolate chip cookies and two half finished bottles of milk. She runs one finger over the cat's back and along its tail, laughing as if Al had presented her with a live kitten instead of a wooden one.

"Hi, Ed!" Winry says, finally looking up and noticing him. The initial grumpiness on his face has since faded away, having registered the existence of food on the table. "I was wondering where you were. Want a cookie?"

"Sure," he says, climbing onto the chair and leaning forward on his knees to grab one. "Thanks," he says through a mouthful of crumbs and still melted chocolate.

"What's in your hand?" she asks, reaching for his wrist. When he puts the dog on the table, misshapen legs and all, Winry gasps.

"It's so cute!" she squeals, picking it up and holding it above her head. "It looks just like Den!" At the mention of her name, Den trots over to Winry and sniffs the transmuted dog, then growls and recoils. Winry points an angry finger at her and tells her to shush.

"I guess Den doesn't like it," Ed grumbles. He doesn't really disagree, though—the sculpture isn't all that impressive. It's only six or seven inches long, and its hindquarters are disproportionately large relative to the length of its stubby tail.

"But _I_ do," Winry says earnestly. "I love them _both_." Al's cat joins Ed's dog in the center of the table, and she gazes at the pair adoringly, her face resting in her palms.

Ed feels his face grow red. "Ugh, Winry, you're so _emotional_. If you like it that much, just keep it!" He stomps out the door and trips over the threshold in his haste, which only makes him want to escape Winry's curious gaze even more. She watches Ed's retreating figure, slightly crestfallen.

"What did I say?" she cries, planting both palms down hard on the table in frustration. Every instance of Ed opening his mouth seems to make her wonder why she consorts with boys at all, especially one as absurd as him.

"Don't worry about him," Al says serenely, as if this is a regular occurrence in Ed's life. He picks up a cookie and takes a curious bite. "Did you make these?"

"Yeah," Winry says absently, clicking the cat and dog together. Ed's mop of blond hair becomes smaller and smaller as he walks deeper into the golden fields between the two houses. "What a weirdo."

"He's just embarrassed," Pinako explains. "You did nothing wrong."

"It was a compliment! I was being nice," Winry says. She's not lying—as confusing as the entire event has been, she has every intention of keeping the animals forever on each side of her toolbox, like tiny guards flanking a castle of wrenches.

"And Edward was being Edward," Granny says, peacefully blowing a ring of white smoke.

"A _weirdo_ ," Winry reaffirms.

"Very much so."

{...}

Hurricane Edward is a four foot tall mess of pink cheeks and pinker ears. His tramping around is made somewhat comical by the tiny squeaking noises of his socked feet over the slippery wooden floorboards, but that doesn't stop him from making an enormous commotion disproportional to his size.

"Back so soon?" Trisha asks. Her hands, which are washing tomatoes and carrots for dinner, dangle over the edge of the sink, and she wipes them on her apron as Ed stomps by. "What happened to your dog? We don't have to put out posters for it, do we?" she teases.

"I gave it to Winry," he practically shouts, his words bouncing off the walls in the hallway. "She gets so worked up over the stupidest things." He runs away before Trisha can admonish him for rolling his eyes and making fun of Winry's emotional state—his shoes have already hit the bottom step of the staircase by the time she extends a helpless arm to him.

Hohenheim watches Ed march past him up the stairs, and hears the rattling slam of the door a few seconds later. Trisha offers her husband a sigh and a shrug for an explanation.

"I think he likes her," Hohenheim says thoughtfully.

* * *

 **thanks for reading! please leave a review and/or a favorite if you enjoyed** ❤️

 **quick note: ed's tantrum and embarrassment isn't supposed to make sense; the kid is embarrassed and flustered and really doesn't know how to handle his feelings. poor boy.**

 **(if you're a fan of terrible tweets, van hohenheim, or both, you'll want to stick around for the next update *wink wink*)**


End file.
